How can you possibly say that I must be yawning myself half to death and longing for the fleshpots of Morristown?  If I could have my own way I would build an unpretentious cottage here, but of course I would insist on a real bath tub.  And I would come and spend the most pleasant months, and cultivate my dear friends the populace, and those delightful Barnetts and Frenchy’s kidlet, who is a darling and my first real conquest.

The doctor and I have caught more salmon, and some sea-trout, and I have taken lessons in knitting from some ancient dames whose fingers trembled either from old age or the excitement of the distinction conferred upon them.  They don’t despise my ignorance but are certainly surprised at it.  I am not certain that I have not prompted the arising of certain jealousies, though I do my best to distribute myself fairly.  I cannot as yet turn a heel but I have hopes.  Some day I will make Daddy wear the things, when he puts on enormous boots and goes quail shooting, after we go South again.  I shall select some day when he has been real mean to me, and be the blisters on his own heels!

The Snowbird is now riding in the cove, having been manicured and primped up in the dry-dock at St. John’s.  Daddy says that it was an economy, for the dock laborer of that fortunate city does not yet regard himself as an independent magnate.  Our schooner and its auxiliary engine are, of course, objects of admiration to the natives.  They know a boat when they see one.  Stefansson would have a fit if he saw a rope end that wasn’t crown-spliced, or a flemish coil that was not reminiscent of the works of old masters.  The way he keeps his poor crew polishing the brasses must make life dreary for them, yet they seem to scrub away without repining.  I have told you that Jim Brown, our second, is a native of these parts and responsible for our coming.  Now he lords it in the village dwellings, where he is considered as a far-traveled man who can relate marvelous tales of great adventures to breathless audiences.

Daddy, of course, directed that every one should be made welcome on board.  You should have seen these big fishermen coyly removing their heavy boots before treading our decks—­I believe that “snowy deck” is the proper term—­lest they should mar the holystoned smoothness.  They have entered with bated breath the dining and sitting room, explored the mysteries of the galley and peeped into the staterooms.

“Jim he’ve written once ter the sister o’ he,” Captain Sammy told me one day.  “He were tellin’ how them yachts wuz all fixed up an’ we wuz thinkin’ as how in travelin’ he’d got ter be considerable of a liar, savin’ yer presence, ma’am.  But now I mistrust he didn’t hardly know enough ter tell the whole truth.”

A few bystanders nodded in approval.  I need hardly tell you that our invasion is still a subject of interest in the place.  From my bedroom window, where I was trying to knit one afternoon, I heard some men who were conversing, standing peacefully in the middle of the little road, in spite of a pouring rain, which they mind about as much as so many ducks.  The only fat man in Sweetapple Cove was speaking.